Treading Water the First Year

The first year of teaching is, almost literally, sink or swim. Sometimes it feels like you’re doing both at the same time. At least I had yet to start coaching. I really think first year teachers should not have any extra duties (and should, and, in fact, should have a reduced workload), but I get that in some ways it would more of a punishment than a protection. I had never taught English before, although, lucky for me, Professor Bernetta Jackson, in one of the summer classes I took in 1971 to gain certification, ditched her curriculum and worked with me on the teaching of English.

So I’m going to blame/credit her when, in the 82-83 school year, I took a very gifted group of sophomores (Class of '85) and, with their consent, turned French II into the school newspaper. (Try getting away with that today! I contend they benefitted far more than slogging through French grammar that none would ever use again.) In any case, that group eventually won what I consider to be Hancock’s first state championship, an All-Missouri rating for The Growler from MIPA*. The only other St. Louis area school to earn that award in 1985 was the Kirkwood Call, a program which even today represents the gold standard of high school journalism. Kind of like the New England Patriots, except they don’t cheat.

Although in theory I had three sections of freshman English that first year, they were three different preps (differentiation hadn’t been invented yet, but while the jargon didn’t exist, even a rookie knew the kids had different needs). So I was trying to prepare for, and grade papers from, five different classes in a subject area foreign to me. Yes, one of them was French.

You quickly invent coping tactics. My wife helped grade the spelling on vocabulary, but I still felt like I was treading water, trying to stay afloat. I now admit that (at least) one tactic I employed (just once) that year was kind of underhanded. In my defense, I’m reading stories and other content for the first time, just like the kids. One morning I hadn’t had time to read the assigned short story (or essay, or whatever) before class started. I did have time to quickly grab a couple obscure details on which I could quiz the class. Of course no one could answer my questions.

Apparently, according to several formers at class reunions throughout the years, I was a lot more, uh, intense in my first couple decades than I was at the end. I went into Tony Award mode (it was a live performance, after all). I slammed the book on the desk and thundered, “If you people won’t do your homework, this is just a waste of time. Now get your books out and read this story right now!” I always remembered that lesson, and tried to also remember that there are all sorts of (legitimate) reasons kids don’t get their homework done.

Karma is a funny thing. A few years later I was teaching a class in Business Law that I inherited from the late Jim (father of Cardinal broadcaster Dan) McLaughlin. I knew nothing about business or law, but this time was at least staying a chapter ahead of the kids. Unfortunately, in my class was possibly the smartest student I had the privilege to teach (at least in the Top 10). I won’t name him, but his mother, one of the sweetest women ever, worked in the superintendent’s office and was in a walking club that I often saw in my neighborhood. He knew exactly what I was doing, and, almost daily, with a sly grin and twinkling eyes, asked me a question that I couldn’t answer, from 2-3 chapters ahead. After the first time or two, I just smiled back to let him know that I knew that he knew. He took pity on me after a couple weeks.

I did crawl ashore that June of '72, gasping for breath, completely exhausted. I turned down a request to get involved in the teachers association. I spent the next couple months lying in the sun at the apartment complex pool, trying to recharge my batteries, although solar power was still a few years away. I stayed out of the water.

*Missouri Interscholastic Press Association

Purple Dittoes!

I think when they tore down the old building they probably found some of my old purples dittoes from the ‘70s. I was a packrat. Hey, you never know when you might need this. Anybody need some 5.25" floppies? 

But I was reminded of the joys of the ditto machine (see Spirit Duplicator) in a response to my post on the building. In the early '70s Xerox was just a company, not a machine, and we didn’t have one in any case. Want copies? Type on a ditto, which, when run through a machine with an alcohol-based wick, made lovely purple facsimiles of varying quality, although freshly run copies also often went directly to the noses of some students. I doubt there was any long-lasting effect, but hey, it was the '70s and anything was worth a try!

One problem. Well, frequently more than one, especially if you weren’t a great typist (on a manual typewriter my first couple years; gunky white-out was not an option). There was no way to correct a typo. Your options were to start over (and I remember, clearly and painfully, using 10-12 dittoes to type a 5-6+ page supplemental short story, article, essay, play, etc., because books never quite had the piece I wanted, and I was unwilling to settle for the “wrong” story – it was hard enough to get kids to read stuff, and if even I didn’t like it....) or type over the error, leaving purple slashes and scars throughout the page. I could usually tolerate one or two mistakes, but then I would feel the need to retype the whole page.

I do remember a test, however, given to the class that easily wins my prize for “Worst.Class.Ever.” (24 boys, 4 girls, freshman English. We’ll leave the year and other details unmentioned.) In any case, we had spent half of the first quarter doing grammar and parts of speech, with the promise, “We'll get this out of the way and then we can do some stuff that’s more fun.” I gave a test at the end of this segment. I transferred the one kid who passed it to another class and started over.

After another 5 weeks, this time focusing just on nouns and pronouns, came a new test. I’m not sure which is my favorite answer. Fill in the blank: “Proper nouns begin with _____________.” Student answer: “The letter P.” But I think that’s topped by the paragraph containing 20 nouns (or pronouns, or perhaps both), to be underlined. Perhaps the man, who is, in fact, a friend on Facebook, will remember underlining a purple splotch to reach the magic number. He doesn’t have to admit it. He was one of three in the class who would actually graduate.

One more anecdote from that class. Actually, there are many, but most are too painful to repeat. Back in the day we were allowed student aides, and they could actually do some grading. I had assigned some grammar exercise from the book and passed off the papers to my aide. She quickly came back to me and hesitatingly asked, “Mr. Berndt? Did you give me the right key? Because this kid only got 1 of the 20 questions right?” I checked, and, embarrassed, had to apologize because indeed, I had given her the wrong answer key. Sadly for this unlucky student, when she used the right key his score went down.

The Building on Ripa

I am (finally?) stirred to action by a Facebook picture-post from inside the old building at 229 West Ripa (a crossword puzzle word meaning related to or situated by the banks of a river) and I thought I’d jump start this blog in the new year with some memories of a place where I spent so many happy years.

The memories are kind of random and will focus mostly on the building itself.

My first room, 200 (bottom left in the picture above), around the corner from Bill Moody’s Library office, from which he would frequently emerge to offer either “advice” (of dubious value, IMO) or a ribald story, was a revelation to me. Now, my high school was hardly a palace*, but Hancock High School, built in 1934 (I hope someone salvaged the cornerstone and dedication plaque before it was demolished) took me somewhat by surprise. First were the Venetian blinds on the windows in my room. Anyone who’s been challenged by those from the past knows they’re not sturdy in the best of circumstances, that cumbersome and size are absolutely correlated, and these were well-worn when I arrived. They didn't last long. There was also a built-in wood cabinet/closet for my coat and whatever other stuff I needed to keep out of the way.

I remember hardwood floors, but would not swear those were in my room; I’m pretty sure they were common on the third floor for quite a while. The windows were big, heavy wooden things that either stayed up or didn’t; it was kind of a guess which ones would stay open on any given day. And they needed opening, even during the winter, thanks to the radiators that did what radiators do, get scalding hot and spit steam and water. Fluorescent lighting was still in the future.

Bel Kaufman’s Up the Down Staircase was a ‘60s classic. Despite its satirical title, Hancock actually had “Up” and “Down” staircases for its two wings, connected only by a hallway on the second floor (not visible in the picture above). To go from Room 315 to 305, for example, you had to go down to the second floor and then back up to the third. Incidentally, a marginally known “secret” was that, unlike so many other buildings, school and otherwise, that I’ve been in, room numbers at Hancock actually followed a system that made sense. Room numbers beginning with a 3 were, of course, on the third floor, even if it seemed like the second floor because the primary building entrances were located on that middle level. Rooms with a 0 as the second digit were in the West Wing (not to be confused with the White House); those featuring a 1 were in the East Wing. Odd numbers for the final digit were closest to the (Mississippi) river on the east side of each wing, even numbers to the west. Rooms starting with a 1 were in the basement.

There were two gyms by the time I arrived, designated as the Boys Gym (Dome) and Girls Gym (smaller space including a warped floor, the stage and non-functional locker rooms underneath that eventually morphed into drama dressing rooms and random storage). Yes, Girls PE was in the Girls Gym and Boys PE in the Dome. (Eventually the name was at least changed to Gym-B in a nominal nod to equality.) Underneath the Girls Gym bleachers was more random storage, a spooky and fascinating area.

The shops were on the bottom floor of the East Wing. Bill Parkhurst’s machine shop did a fine job of prepping boys for good jobs. Bill also provided security for the back faculty parking lot when he took his smoke breaks between classes. We also had a wood shop and even an auto shop that lasted into the 80s. 

It was a cool old building, sometimes downright cold when the boiler went out, as it was wont to do with some regularity. Or hot; air conditioned rooms? Please. More than one box fan plummeted from a third floor room as it toppled out a window after failing in a vain attempt to circulate some air during the hot humid months for which St. Louis is famous. I will confess it’s tough to try to be professional with sweat trickling down the trough below your beltline.

One final anecdote about the windows. In the Spring of ‘75, if memory serves (and it’s becoming a balky servant more and more frequently, so it might have been ‘74), we had just passed a bond issue to put in new windows to replace the (then) 40-year old originals, when a ferocious hail storm blew out all the east windows in both wings. Because no one was hurt (despite a junior high science teacher, who will remain unnamed, thinking it would be a great idea to send out a kid to fetch some hail using an umbrella to ward off the golf-ball+ sized stones), the hailstorm turned out to be quite providential. Insurance picked up the cost for the about half the building’s windows and we ended up with a free roof out of the deal. And since teachers hadn’t had a raise since the 71-72 school year, most of us just pocketed the checks for hail damage on our cars. And really, in my case, what would have been the point of fixing an orange Chevy Vega? I loved that car (and both its engines).

Feel free to sign in and add your own memories, either here or on Facebook.

*Although my high school did contain a big white “chateau” which housed what passed for a library and some small classrooms in the basement labyrinth and elsewhere, it consisted mostly of three 2-room prefabs (see picture below) with a middle area for lockers and a bathroom. My previous public schools had been relatively new, however (Edgar Road Elementary, which went into service the year before I started there for kindergarten in 1953, Hixson JH, and finally West Ladue Junior (which eventually became Westminster Christian Academy), brand new the year I started (1961).

The Regime

My first administrators were (inordinately?) proud of their German heritage. As I’ve noted elsewhere, stereotypes can cheat both the typer and the typee, but generally do not arise in a vacuum. German culture is not known for its empathetic qualities, and Rich Eichhorst’s and Siegfried Messner’s “all in” embracement of their Germanity (yes, spell-check, I know it’s not a real word) led them to some insensitive, at least, and more likely offensive behaviors. At least one person was offended, for sure.

One or both of these administrators had managed to procure some Nazi memorabilia (Messner’s father had been an unrepentant member of the SS, a fact he related often, without any seeming embarrassment), including some rubber stamps that included the swastika. They got great amusement sending each other notes with those stamps clearly displayed.

I had not yet ventured into the Church of Righteous Indignation, so I mostly thought they were weird and just kind of nodded pleasantly. That I was a new teacher and they were my bosses is the only excuse I can offer. Fortunately, the practice didn’t last that long.

The school secretary* (as they were called then) was Lena Duggan, who had emigrated from England. She put up with their nonsense for a while, then informed them that she had spent too much time unconscious in a London hospital from a Luftwaffe air attack to find their shenanigans one bit amusing, that she was offended, and they needed to knock it off. Thus did the swastika quickly disappear at Hancock. Just as an outgunned Britain held off the more powerful Germany, so did a feisty English ex-pat bring two grown (sort of) men to their senses, if not their knees.

* An aside for current and prospective teachers: the school secretary, or administrative assistant if you need or want more syllables, is, hands down, the most important person in a school. If she (and they have universally been women in my experience) is not your friend, you need to work on that. If you haven’t already discovered, nothing changes when an administrator is out of the building, but everything goes downhill very quickly should the secretary be gone for more than an hour, which is why so many tend to grab lunch at their desks or in a cubby-hole around the corner. Cleaning up the mess created by their absence is just one more task for these school building heroines.

From My Other Blog, re: 9/11

This is a leap ahead, but does relate to Hancock, albeit at the end of my career, not the beginning.

http://bobberndt.blogspot.com/2014/09/9-11-different-kind-of-throwback.html

Go Team!

I’ve been really flattered by the response to this new blog. Thanks to all of you who read it, whether you’ve responded or not. There have been almost 3,000 views so far; I’m glad so many of you are enjoying my little nostalgic trips down West Ripa Avenue.

I know I haven’t posted in a while, but I’ve been busy, not slacking. You know how hectic the beginning of the school year is. Oh, wait, was. But I am still coaching softball, so that makes this my busy time.

It’s ironic that coaching is the last regular job I have left in education, because one of the things that chafed in my first couple years at the Place was the jock mentality that pervaded the high school. The joke was, “How do you get to be a principal? Have a losing season.” Richard Eichhorst, the principal and ex-coach, ex-St. Louis Hawk, was kind of a stereotypical jock and so were at least some, if not most, of those who made up the Tiger coaching staff. It is important to note, socially and historically, that other than the club level GAA stuff, there were no interscholastic athletic teams for the girls at this time, and, therefore, no women coaches, at least at Hancock.

As previously noted, ties were the required uniform for male teachers, unless, of course, you were part of the coaching staff. They could, and almost always did, wear polos; most of their shirts labeled them as coaches, just in case they forgot what their sport was, I guess. However, the decidedly unathletic English Department came up with a kind of anti-jock protest counter-strategy to the double standard, one that we found amusing; the coaching staff, not so much. 

I don’t remember for sure who came up with the idea of English Department polos, but I’m going to give credit to (the late) Curt Kenner. We all jumped on board (as I have noted elsewhere, I really am a team player, even if I reserve the right to choose my teammates), though, and one day shortly thereafter came uniformly dressed in our gold polos, and conspicuously used the secret greeting of, “Hey Coach.” Our shirts all identified us as Hancock English Department; Kenner was tagged “Journalism” in a circular script above the tag, (the late) Debbie Strouth Weissflug was “Drama,” (the late) Bill Blake “Poet in Residence,” etc. I don’t really remember my tag, (but I want to say it was something like “Vocabulary Master”) or Cheryl Berry’s or Joyce Pfaff’s, but it doesn’t really matter. You get the picture.

Shockingly, we found our satire much more amusing than the coaching staff. The boys were a little touchy, proving you don’t have to be a jock to score points.